Right-hand Man
by Shellecah
Summary: A blow to Chester's head fuels his impulse to safeguard Matt, even as Matt goes to greater lengths to take care of Chester.
1. Chapter 1

When a hailstorm blew over Dodge and left frigid air in its wake, Chester rose from bed long past midnight to stoke the stove fire, put on his socks and cover up with two blankets. The marshal would come at daybreak, and though Chester felt muddled that early, Mr. Dillon needed a hot drink after the freezing walk from his rooming house. Chester fixed coffee and returned to bed without pouring himself a cup.

Hands in his coat pockets, Matt trod cautiously on the ice covering the walkway, and reminded himself to tell Chester to take care when he went out. Chester was snoring under his blankets, so Matt quietly filled a cup with steaming coffee and sat at his desk to read the _Dodge City Times_. The jail cells were empty and the trail herds would not hit town until planting season. He'd let Chester sleep until he woke, and they'd get breakfast.

He slept two more hours, and when he stirred and rubbed his eyes, Matt had finished the _Times _and was reading _The Wichita Eagle_. "No rain nor hail since yesterday, and it ain't snowin'," said Chester as he shaved. "We won't wet our feet."

"For now," said Matt. "It might start again any time."

"That's so," said Chester. He washed up and dressed. Matt strapped on his gunbelt, and the men donned their coats and hats.

It was now late morning and Matt's belly rumbled. He thought of steak and eggs and biscuits with gravy, and as Chester opened the door and stepped out on the walk, Matt recollected the ice. "There's ice on the walk, Chester. Be careful," he warned, just as the worn soles of Chester's boots slipped on the boards.

Arms flailing, he fought for a foothold. He reached for the hitching rail with one hand and the jailhouse wall with the other, but both supports were too far away. His own balance precarious on the ice, Matt grabbed at him and missed.

Chester fell. The back of his head hit the hitching rail and the boardwalk. A jarring rattled his teeth and bones, and for a span of heartbeats he couldn't breathe. Then he was gasping but he couldn't move.

His blue eyes dark with concern, Mr. Dillon's face filled Chester's vision as the marshal bent over him. "You alright, Chester?" Chester's head thudded and his neck hurt. He opened his mouth to tell Mr. Dillon that but nothing came out.

Matt put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "That was a hard fall. We'll have Doc take a look at you."

Chester found his voice. It was trembly, and he trusted it would smooth out strong again in a short spell. "Ah'm alright 'cept ma head 'n neck aches. Doc cain't do nothin' lessun it's split open back there."

Matt helped him to his feet and searched his scalp for cuts. There were none, just a wide red spot at the back of his head starting to swell. "No wound," said Matt, "but you'll have a mighty big lump."

"Yeah . . . well . . . ." Chester sighed as Matt picked up his hat from the walk and handed it to him. "Doc cain't treat noggin lumps an' um hungry. Kin we git breakfast?"

"Sounds good to me," said Matt.

Chester took a step and staggered. Matt steadied him, and he squeezed his eyes closed and pressed his fingers to his temples. "My head hurts worse. Like a mallet poundin'." His brown eyes dim, he blinked at Matt. "Everthin' looks foggy in an' out to clear."

"You might have a concussion," said Matt. "We're goin' to Doc's. Walk in the street where it's not as slippery." He kept his hands around Chester's shoulders as they walked.

"Ain't as much ice on the dirt no matter; a wagon could hit us a walkin' in the street," said Chester.

"I'll get us out of the way if a wagon comes."

"Is ma head bone broke, ya reckon?"

"I don't think so, Chester."

"How d'you know it ain't."

"I don't know. That's for Doc to tell. But I didn't feel a crack in your head when I looked for cuts."

Chester touched his palm to his forehead. "I'm dizzy," he said.

"Doc'll fix you up," said Matt.

"Doc'll jest give me headache powders an' make me lie abed on 'is lounge. He cain't do much else, but ah'll go up there anyways."

They slowly climbed the stairs to Doc's rooms, pausing on each step. As Matt opened the door and helped Chester sit on the recliner, Doc looked up from his book, _Medical Inquiries and Observations Upon Diseases of the Mind_, took off his spectacles and rose from his desk chair.

"What happened," said Doc.

"He slipped on the ice," said Matt. "Fell and hit his head."

"I hit my head two times, Doc," said Chester. "On the hitching rail an' boardwalk."

"You _did,_" said Doc. "Well, it's the season for falls. There'll be a lot more of 'em before the winter's over." He probed Chester's scalp and frowned at the lump. "That will grow about big as a billiard ball before the swelling goes down."

"Is ma head bone broke?"

"No no. Nothing that serious." Doc fingered Chester's neck and moved his head from side to side. "Your neck hurt?"

"Not scarce at all now. It did first off."

Doc went on with his examination, asking Chester questions while Matt stood by, the skin between his brows crinkled. The room was warm from the stove, and two lamps brightened the office against the cloudy day. Matt welcomed the heat and light after the freezing air outside. Doc wore no shoes, vest, collar or tie, and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone.

"You have a concussion," he said to Chester.

"Then I git headache powders, go back to the jail an' eat in bed then lay down?" said Chester.

"No. You get headache powders and lay where you are there 'til I say you can get up. About three days. Matt will bring you breakfast."

"I ain't stayin' here," said Chester.

"You'll do as Doc says, Chester," said Matt.

"Lie down, now," said Doc. "Matt, can you get a pillow and a coupla blankets from the bedroom?" He touched Chester's head, then pulled off his boots.

"I'll bring us some breakfast from Delmonico's," said Matt, when he and Doc had Chester settled and dosed with two packets of headache powder. "Maybe Kitty will want to eat with us. You have breakfast yet, Doc?"

"I did," said Doc. "Most ready for lunch."

"I'll be back, Chester," said Matt. He patted his friend's shoulder and headed for the Long Branch.

Kitty descended the stairs as Matt pushed through the batwings. She paused mid-flight when she saw him and smiled. He returned her smile, struck anew as he often was by her beauty.

She lingered on the stair, thinking how handsome Matt was, how his big sky-blue eyes were more stunning than any man's she'd ever seen. Kitty had considered resting in her pantalets and dressing gown all day, in her room where it was warm and decorated to her taste, with cushioned furnishings and a bed to lie on when the notion took her, locking her door against the saloon gals with secrets in their eyes, and the men with their groping hands, like wild animals waiting for their moment to pounce.

Kitty was in love with Matt, had a deep attachment to Doc and a tender affection for Chester, and appreciated Sam as a faithful friend. They were the only men in town who occupied her thoughts.

She rather shrank from another long winter's day and night in the drafty barroom with its hard chairs, and nearly turned to go back to her room when Matt appeared. Her surroundings ceased to bother her when Matt was there; his presence invigorated her and she never felt dull around him.

With a gallant gesture unlike his usual finger tipping, Matt took off his hat. "Hello, Kitty."

"Hello, Matt," Kitty said silkily. He'd removed his hat in her honor, so she would do something different, too. She held out her hands to him as she came down the stairs, and Matt took her hands easily, like everyday.

"Have some coffee?" said Kitty. "It's a little early for beer."

"No thanks. Kitty, Chester took a fall outside the office."

Her smile vanished, her eyes widening in concern. Sam put down the beer mug he was polishing and moved to Matt and Kitty at the foot of the stairs.

"He hurt bad?" said Kitty.

"Doc said he has a concussion. He slipped on the walk. The boards are covered with clear ice that's hard to see. Doc's keeping him at his place a few days," said Matt.

"I'll go up and sit with him awhile," said Kitty, going for her cape and gloves as she spoke. "Come with me, Matt?"

"I'll be there soon. I'm gonna get him some breakfast. Myself, too. You want some, Kitty?"

"Please," said Kitty, putting on her hat. It was light and fancy with a plume of feathers, and couldn't possibly warm her head and neck. Her cape had an embroidered velvet green collar instead of a hood.

Matt eyed her high-heeled shoes. "Be careful. It's less slippery walking on the dirt," he said.

"I will."

Matt headed for Delmonico's and Kitty went the other way to Doc's, walking in the street near the boardwalk as Matt suggested. Icicles hung from the roofs, ice glazed the hitching rails and the water in the troughs was frozen. No new-fallen snow covered the ground, no snow at all, and no sunshine brightened Dodge. The scene was unfit for a picture postcard. Kitty's gloved hand gripped the banister as she navigated the slick stairs to Doc's rooms.

Doc was reading at his desk and Chester lay on the recliner. He looked cross and a shade paler, and something about his eyes troubled Kitty. Large and brown, normally soulful and curious, his eyes seemed to gaze inward with a vague expression. He looked at Kitty with none of the brightness wont to perk his face whenever he saw her.

"Kitty," said Doc.

"Doc?" said Kitty.

"He's a bit foggy," said Doc. "It's expected with concussion."

" 'Tain't nothin' wrong with me 'ceptin' um hungry," Chester said grumpily. "Makes ma head swimmy. Dun know why I gotta lay ta here for. My head don't hurt now."

Doc moved to the recliner. "Chester, if you get up from there and try to walk more'n a few steps on your own, you'll find out the hard way there's something wrong with your head besides hunger. It don't hurt now cuz the headache powders are masking the pain. You'll feel it again in a few hours and I'll give you another dose."

"Here, Kitty," said Doc, pulling a chair close to the lounge. "Set."

Kitty seated herself and smiled at Chester, concealing her worry over the strangeness in his eyes. Though concerned, she felt none of that unease that bothered some folks when a friend looked addled. Her regard for Chester left no room for her own discomfort. She wanted only to make him better.

"Matt will be here soon with breakfast, Chester," said Kitty. "We'll heat it and have coffee."

"Doc don't make coffee strong enough to clear a dizzy head," said Chester.

"Well I'll add another scoop to the pot right now," said Doc.

Chester's eyes abruptly closed and his head flopped to the side. _"Doc,"_ said Kitty, jumping up from her chair.

Doc turned from the stove and moved to the recliner. He pried open Chester's eyelid, and Chester opened his eyes and frowned. "Why'd ya do that for, Doc? Ah'm tired."

Doc patted his shoulder. "Just checking on you. Go on back to sleep, Chester. We'll wake you when it's time to eat." Chester's eyes closed again and his face went slack.

"That happens with concussion," Doc said to Kitty. "They fall into a deep sleep just that fast. His brain needs the rest to mend itself."

Kitty's hand strayed toward Chester's hair, then pulled back. She didn't want to disturb him. "Oh Doc," she said.

Doc put his arm around her and they gazed at Chester. "He'll be alright. Might not act quite like himself for a spell . . .hopefully won't be permanent. Strange how this happened to Chester just when I been reading up on mental ailments. Worst cases sink into lunacy, never recover," said Doc.

Kitty looked at Doc, her lovely blue eyes glittering. "Chester won't sink into lunacy. You won't let that happen, Doc. I'll do anything I can to help him get better, and I know Matt will, too."

"Well I will too, Kitty. I will too. Heaven knows I'm no miracle worker, but by golly, I'll try my best. What he needs is rest, nothing to distress him and his friends close by, letting him know we care," said Doc.

"I can do that on my own if I need to, Doc. I can make him better myself."

Doc's arm tightened round Kitty's waist. "You won't need to do it on your own."

Chester slept through the nights until late in the morning and napped in the afternoon. When he was awake and Kitty was there, she had no need to talk. Being Miss Kitty in the same room as himself sufficed.

When the Long Branch kept Kitty away and Matt was out attending to the town, Chester wanted to read, which Doc said he mustn't do until his headaches stopped. "I'd be obliged if you'd read to me, Doc. Don't haveta be no frontier story. Jest anythin' ud do the trick," said Chester.

"I'm no good at reading aloud, Chester."

"Then maybe you wanna play some checkers?"

"No," said Doc, "your head's too weak yet for that. You have to think too hard playin' checkers."

"Oh forevermore," Chester sighed. "I wisht Mr. Dillon would come so's we can talk."

"Well, you and I can talk," said Doc.

" 'Bout what," said Chester.

"I don't know," said Doc.

" 'Bout me turnin' lunatic?"

Tidying the office as he talked, Doc stopped with a bunch of empty headache powder packets in one hand and two coffee cups in the other. He put the packets and cups on the desk, pulled a chair to the recliner where Chester lay, and sat down.

"You're not turning lunatic," said Doc. "The headaches and dizziness make you feel a little odd is all, not yourself. It will pass."

"Times Miss Kitty looks for me in my eyes," said Chester. "Worried like. Dunno if she kin find me ever time."

"She knows you're you," said Doc.

"An' Mr. Dillon he looks worried too, even whilst we talk easy 'bout the sun comin' out an' ice meltin' an' sech."

"Matt and Kitty worry because you had an accident and have to spend some time abed," said Doc. "That don't mean you're going crazy."

"You think so, Doc?"

"I know so. Ya know, Chester, you can make your head sound again."

"I can? How."

"By thinking you're as strong as before the accident. Stronger," said Doc.

Chester frowned. "Don't think on it too hard now. It'll come to you," said Doc.

The headaches and dizziness passed as the last sliver of ice in Dodge melted, the icehouses excepted. On a dry sunny morning, Chester dressed in his pants and shirt and boots for the first time in three days to leave Doc's. Miss Kitty had given him three dollars and a promise of two free beers to celebrate his recovery, and he headed to Delmonico's for a big breakfast.

"He's still not altogether himself, Matt, so take care with him," Doc said as he and Matt sat drinking coffee at the jailhouse the night before. "He says some odd things even for Chester. There's a . . . confoundment in his eyes, a cloudiness not like him at his best."

"I've seen that look," said Matt, "and I've thought a lot on it."

"You've come to terms with it, then?" said Doc.

"I have. I didn't hire him for forcefulness or fighting prowess or book-learning. I know men with those things who'd eagerly pin on a deputy's badge. I won't hire 'em on account of I don't trust a one among the lot," said Matt. "I can make allowances and look after Chester with this fuzzy-headedness."

"Like with his leg," said Doc, and Matt nodded.

"The abnormalities might lessen and go away over time. No telling with concussion," said Doc. He shook his head and scrubbed his hand through his hair.

"I'm not counting on that. A loose mooring in Chester's head won't change anything far as I am concerned," Matt said. Doc tweaked his ear, looking intently at Matt.

"What is it, Doc."

"Chester was hit on the head with a six-gun some time ago," said Doc. "That doesn't help his chances. He could get worse, Matt. You're saying you'll take care of him if he . . . loses his senses?"

"That's what I'm saying."


	2. Chapter 2

Though no incident Matt documented made for pleasant writing, he found reporting the murder of a husband and wife by their own hands on a farm outside Dodge particularly distasteful. Matt figured the couple quarreled over supper, leaving bowls of half-eaten antelope stew on the table when they killed each other.

The husband shot his wife, piercing her lung. He used an ancient musket that held only one ball, and as he reloaded and she bled out, she grabbed a butcher knife and stabbed him through the heart. They had no children, fortunately.

Chester sat motionless on the bed, resting against the wall. His unnatural silence gave Matt an excuse to take a break from the report and see if his friend was alright. Chester gazed blankly and fixedly at the window, his face and posture relaxed and a tranquil air surrounding him. Matt knew Front Street was likely deserted. The cold kept folks indoors and there wasn't much to look at through the windows.

"Chester?" said Matt. Chester started and turned his vacant stare on Matt.

"You alright?" said Matt.

"Sure," Chester said easily. "It's snug settin' quiet with the fire goin' in the stove, jail cells empty, a lookin' through the window with no one out thar." He smiled at Matt, who grinned back at him.

"Why don't you lie down there awhile," said Matt. Chester slept a lot even at his most lucid, and these days he was more himself after a nap. The vagueness like a gray fog settled over him when he grew tired.

"Don't mind if ah do," he said. He stretched out on the bed, closed his eyes and dozed off at once. Matt turned his attention to his report, and in a moment wrote without pause as images of the murders flashed through his mind like a series of grisly tintypes.

Hearing the door open, he glanced up to see Jonas come in, looking excited. "Jonas," said Matt.

"Marshal." Jonas looked at Chester, who hadn't stirred at the storekeeper's entrance. "How is he," said Jonas in a low tone. He'd heard about Chester's fall. Chester was well-liked in Dodge, and the whole town knew of the accident.

"Tolerably well," said Matt. "Something happen, Jonas?"

"I'll say. You know that abandoned cabin on the Ar_kan_sas bank roundabout three miles from town? Nice little place, still in good repair."

"I know the place," said Matt.

"That gunman on the _Wanted _poster tacked up at the depot. Gaul Dragoon?" said Jonas.

"You heard he's hidin' out at that cabin?" said Matt.

Chester woke and sat up, staring at Jonas. "I surely did," said Jonas. "A drifter just left my store, he told me. Said he rode by the cabin, saw smoke comin' out the flue, and thought maybe the person staying there would give him some biscuits and coffee for ten cents. He was out of food and real cold and hungry. Fella answered the door gave him the biscuits and coffee and told 'im it'd cost two dollars."

"_Two dollars," _said Chester.

"Yep," said Jonas. "And when the drifter argued it, fella said either give 'im two dollars for the grub or give it and the coffee back and get shet of the property fast, before he pumped a bullet in the drifter's hide. Well the drifter was powerful hungry, and offered to pay three dollars if the fella would throw in a hunk of fatback, and the fella said it'd be two dollars extry for the fatback, so the drifter paid the four dollars with the fatback added, mounted up and went on his way."

"My gracious," said Chester. "Four dollars fer a l'il plain vittles. Whoever heard of sech."

"Well," Jonas went on, "the drifter said he wandered round Dodge some before he drifted to my store, saw the _Wanted _circular and recognized the fella at the cabin. You know Dragoon is wanted dead or alive, Marshal."

"Thanks, Jonas," said Matt, rising from the desk. Jonas nodded and turned to leave as Matt opened a drawer and took out the stack of _Wanted _posters. At least two prints of each likeness came in the post, so he kept a circular at the office and Chester nailed the duplicates up around town.

Jonas hesitated, watching Chester stand up from the bed and limp to the row of shotguns against the wall. Jonas's eyes, magnified by his spectacles, were intense and inquisitive. The marshal figured he wanted to know if Chester would ride with Matt to the cabin. Though Matt intended to tell Chester to stay behind, he wouldn't tell him in front of Jonas. "Anything else, Jonas?" said Matt, as Jonas's eyes tracked Chester putting on his coat.

"Uhh . . . ." Jonas tore his gaze away from Chester and looked inquiringly at Matt, who looked sternly back at him. Jonas shook his head and left.

Matt pulled a drawing of a man with a whiskery weathered face and large features out of the stack of posters. "Stay here and tend the office, Chester," said the marshal, as his friend reached for his hat, holding a loaded shotgun.

Chester looked stunned, then worried. "Office don't need tendin', Mr. Dillon," he said. "Folks is all indoors keepin' warm next the stove, and the outlaws holed up for winter. Like Gaul Dragoon in thet cabin thar on the Ar_kan_sas."

"I'm takin' Dragoon alone," said Matt, strapping on his gunbelt.

Chester moved close to Matt, standing in front of the marshal. "But ya got no grudge," Chester argued. "I done read 'bout Dragoon in the _Leavenworth Times_. They say he's real fast with a gun. You need backup, Mr. Dillon."

"Not this time, Chester," said Matt.

"It's on account of ma head gittin' bunged up, ain't it," said Chester. "Well I kin shoot straight as ever ah done. Doc said think 'n act like my head's sound an' it will be. Ah'm thinkin' somethin' fierce an' I'm tellin' you ma head's rock steady. An' sakes alive, Mr. Dillon, I'm ready ta _act_."

Chester's round eyes did at the moment look clear and sharp, and Matt saw no trace of confusion in their brown depths. Matt nonetheless felt uneasy about his partner riding with him to capture the gunman, or shoot him if that proved necessary. Doc had said Chester's vagueness could vanish one moment and seize him the next, making him helpless as though struck blind.

"Move out of the way," Matt said gently. Chester was blocking the door, and he stepped to the side. The marshal expected his assistant to heed his order as Chester generally did when Matt gave the final word.

Instead Chester followed Matt out and closed the door behind them. "Where are you going, Chester," Matt said tightly, feeling a stab of irritation between his temples. "I told you to stay in the office."

"I'm a goin' with you," Chester said. Naturally tractable, and usually eager to please Matt, on occasion Chester clung to his own way. Except when he was too wound up to pay Matt any mind, the marshal could daunt his partner at such times. Or he could before Chester's concussion.

Matt moved in close to Chester, squared his shoulders to emphasize his height, hardened his face and made his affable blue eyes flinty. _"Chester," _he said.

Chester did not back up, lower his head or flinch as Matt supposed he would. He did not even blink as he held the shotgun in both hands and looked up into Matt's eyes, his own eyes burning with a well of emotion Matt couldn't get a purchase on.

"You cain't scare me out of it this time, Mr. Dillon," Chester defied. He was calm, not gripped in an unreasoning fervor, and his defiance in this state was so unlike him that Matt for a moment was at a loss, then figured the concussion made his friend act that way. "I ain't gonna let you face that Gaul Dragoon alone," said Chester. "He's too much a danger."

The marshal realized he'd only keep Chester in town by locking him up, which Matt never had done and couldn't imagine doing. "Alright." Matt's face softened and he gave Chester's arm a pat.

"You should oughter tole me fetch the horses down ta the office like as usual, Mr. Dillon," Chester scolded as they walked to Grimmick's.

"Didn't think to," said Matt.

"Ma head's on straight 'nough to fetch a horse," said Chester.

"Sure," said Matt distractedly, thinking about cornering the gunman Dragoon so he'd surrender without a shootout.

Moss sat sipping coffee near his stove when Matt and Chester arrived at the stable. "Howdy," said Moss.

"Moss," Matt and Chester said at the same time.

"Heard about that gunman hiding out near the Ar_kan_sas," said Moss as Matt saddled Buck. "You headed to bring him in, Matt?"

"If I don't haveta kill 'im first," said Matt.

"You going, Chester?" said Moss, watching Chester saddle his horse.

"I'm puttin' the saddle on, ain't I?" Chester snapped. "Where else ud I be goin'."

"I don't know," said Moss.

"I ain't no convalescent no more," said Chester, as he and Matt led their horses outside. "So folks kin quit askin' dumb questions."

Moss trailed them out. "You're grumpy as an invalid, that's sure," he said. "Matt will have a time dragging you along with your bellyaching."

"I dint grump 'til you asked that fool question," said Chester, mounting up.

"It wasn't a fool question," said Moss. "You ain't like usual, Chester."

"_Well, I am too," _said Chester.

"Come on, Chester," said Matt.

"Ya dun need ta shake yer head thataway neither, Moss," said Chester as he and Matt rode out.

They followed the Arkansas until the cabin appeared in the distance on the riverbank. A barn stood nearby, and smoke billowed from the cabin flue into the gray sky.

"Dragoon's in there a'right, Mr. Dillon," said Chester. "Got the stove fired up, ya see?"

"We'll water the horses and tether them to that elder tree yonder; walk the rest of the way," said Matt.

The marshal watched as Chester pulled the shotgun from the scabbard. "Wait here, Chester," said Matt.

"What?"

"If I take Dragoon alive, you'll help guard him on the ride back to Dodge."

"Mr. Dillon, I'm a goin' right up to thet thar cabin with you. I ain't rode out here to set back an' watch you git shot."

"Alright," said Matt, knowing arguing was useless.

"Dragoon'll likely have the door locked an' winders shut," said Chester as they walked through the rustling brown grass to the cabin. "Iffen we jest walk up an' knock, he'll open the door with 'is gun at the ready."

"See that thicket at the water's edge? A few yards from the cabin," said Matt. Chester nodded. "Hide in there and cover me," said Matt.

"How you gonna get Dragoon, Mr. Dillon?"

"Knock on the door, then run round to the side and flatten against the wall before he looks through the window and sees me. When he opens the door, comes out and looks around, I'll get the jump on 'im," said Matt.

"You aim to ambush 'im?"

"I'll give him a chance to surrender."

"Be safer to bushwhack him," Chester said dispassionately. "You want I should do it?"

Rattled, Matt frowned at him. Such hardness was not like Chester, and Matt wondered just how much damage the blows to his head had inflicted on him.

"Dragoon's a gun fer hire, Mr. Dillon," Chester said patiently. "Wanted dead or alive. I know how you hate shootin' any man, but he ain't worth savin'."

"That doesn't mean I shouldn't try."

"I'm thinkin' 'bout you. Don't care a fig for savin' his murderin' hide. Jest you give the word, Mr. Dillon, an' ah'll blow 'im away."

Matt grinned a little. "Only if you need to, Chester. Be careful and keep yourself hid in that shrubbery. Don't stand up and make a target for him."

"I _know _that," said Chester. "You warn't learnin' that to me 'fore I bunged my head."

"Alright, Chester. Get down in there now," said Matt.

Chester concealed himself in the brush and Matt approached the cabin. He drew his gun and knocked on the door, then ducked below the windows, hurried around the corner of the cabin and stood with his back against the wall.

He heard the door open, and a man's voice said, "What the sam hill."

Matt raised his gun in both hands, noiselessly turned and waited for the man he felt in his gut was the gunman Dragoon to appear in his sights. Holding his gun in shooting position, the man walked past so Matt saw his profile, and scoped the prairie looking toward the horizon. Even from the side, Matt clearly recognized the whiskered, heavy features from the _Wanted _poster.

Matt often employed this maneuver to lure fugitives into the open, and Chester was familiar with it. Before the outlaw looked in Matt's direction, the marshal would call to him not to move and drop his gun. Unless a man was desperate, or chose dying from gunshot over imprisonment, trial and the ignominy of the noose, he'd realize he had no chance and surrender with no shots fired.

Dragoon deserved to die, yet Matt shrank from killing him. No matter how many men Matt had to shoot, pulling the trigger never grew easier; in fact, he found it harder every time. When he could do it no longer, and he knew that day would come, he'd turn in the badge and never pin it on again.

Afterward, Chester explained, "You tole me shoot 'im if the need arose, Mr. Dillon. He was rattlesnake fast, never shot in a fight. You needed ma help, way I figgered it."

"Chester, I had the jump on him," said Matt. "You know how it works."

Chester shook his head. "Works maybe if you ambushed him. Your soft heart wanted to give him a chance, an' Dragoon wouldna been took. He'd fight to the death. I know, Mr. Dillon, I recollect all 'bout Dragoon from the _Leavenworth Times_. You woulda shot him sure, only yer jump on 'im woulda been no jump at all, and he'd likely shoot you too or worse."

Matt knew Chester was mistaken, that he acted from that peculiar anxious protectiveness of Matt that the marshal found both annoying and touching, and from the fear that drove Chester's courage. When Dragoon walked past as Matt waited by the side wall of the cabin with his gun aimed, he knew that fast as the man was, he wasn't fast enough to shoot Matt, on account of Matt if he had to could shoot Dragoon first. Matt tensed and opened his mouth to shout _Hold it_.

Then he heard Chester yell, _"Don't move or I'll shoot!" _Dragoon jumped, pivoted in Chester's direction and pointed his gun in one swift motion. He had no time to thumb the hammer. A shotgun blast for the span of a breath swallowed the rushing sound of the river and shattered the otherwise vast silence of the plains. Dragoon jerked up rigid, then crumpled to the ground.

Matt ran around the corner of the cabin and looked toward the thicket where he'd ordered Chester to hide himself. He stood amid the brush, the shotgun still on his shoulder in firing position. He'd risen from cover of the shrubbery to shoot Dragoon to ensure he wouldn't miss.

Matt leaned over, took hold of Dragoon's shoulder and rolled him on his back. The shot had ripped a hole dead center in his chest, and his blood filled the hole and spilled onto his faded black shirt. His eyes were fixed open with no light in them.

Chester limped to Matt and pensively studied the hole in Dragoon's chest. "Wahl, hittin' ma head on the ice dint throw my aim off none," he said.

He found a shovel in the barn and they buried Dragoon, far enough away from the riverbank so the rain and snow would not wash the body into the water, and a long stone's throw from the cabin, so anyone who made it home wouldn't plant their vegetables atop the corpse.

Chester bridled Dragoon's horse and led the animal to the river to drink, then he and Matt walked to the elder tree where their horses were tethered. Chester tied Dragoon's horse to his saddle pommel with the reins.

Matt took hold of his pommel to mount Buck, and felt Chester's gaze at his back. He turned to meet his partner's expressive brown eyes, troubled and questioning. Chester stood by Dragoon's horse, rubbing its neck under the iron-gray mane while the horse moved its head up and down and nickered. Matt briefly laid his hand on his friend's shoulder, and Chester's face relaxed in relief.

When Matt shared the incident with Doc and Kitty late that night over beer at the Long Branch, Doc said, "Happens sometimes with blows to the head. He has a hard time subduing his impulses under strong emotion, and his judgment's off. Thinks he's doing right, most likely. He's gentle at heart, so he won't turn rough or violent. That is not in him. Goin' against your orders, Matt, and what you saw as coldness when he shot Dragoon, was on account of Chester's attachment to you. He was compelled to protect you; couldn't help himself."

Matt recollected Chester had trouble reining in his feelings before he hit his head. The problem was just more magnified now.

"Oh Doc," said Kitty. "Poor Chester."

"Well, I don't know about that, Kitty," said Matt. "His spirits aren't low at all. I haven't scolded him, if that's what you mean."

"You haven't," said Kitty. "When I went to Jonas's store today, he said he saw you yell at Chester from across the street."

"I didn't yell at him," said Matt. "You know Jonas exaggerates."

"Jonas oughta mind his own business," said Doc. "What was he doin' skulking on the street spying on people anyway."

"Then Chester's happy, Matt?" said Kitty. "I want him to be happy."

"He's takin' it easy in bed, drinkin' coffee and reading a novel. He seems to need more rest since the accident," said Matt.

"Only twenty-four hours, sunup to sunup. He rested most every hour of that before the accident," said Doc. "What's he reading. You can tell a lot about a person's state of mind by what he reads."

"_Deadwood Dick,"_ said Matt. "Like what he usually reads."

"Oh . . . ." Doc took a long swallow of beer. With all of Dodge and its environs to tend to, he was tiring of talking about Chester. "Then maybe his . . . abnormalities are limited to, whatever I just said. What did I say?"

Kitty shrugged. "I don't remember," she said.

"Well, neither do I," said Doc. "Maybe it wasn't worth sayin'." He chugged more beer. "Don't make much difference anyhow, seein' as it's Chester. He's like to act most any way with no warning at all even at his best."

Days later after the blizzard, when mounds of soft pristine snow covered the rooftops, walkways and streets, Matt, Chester, Doc and Kitty would linger in Delmonico's over sweet potato pie with cheese and coffee, talking at length about what happened when the worst winter storm of the season struck southwest Kansas. Winter was the time for serious talk and reflection, as beyond essential chores, the townsfolk could do little else other than huddle near the stove or fireplace, eat and drink, rest and sleep, read or play cards or checkers.

The three friends seated round a table at the Long Branch that night weren't thinking of snowstorms, though. The sky was clear and bright with stars and the air dry, while the blizzard howled its way from Montana Territory to Dakota. "I remember one thing Chester told me you said, Doc," said Matt.

"What's that."

" 'Doc said think and act like my head's sound and it will be,' " Matt quoted. At the time he gave the words scant credence aside from something Doc thought up to hearten Chester. In the days ahead as the blizzard raging toward Kansas from Dakota Territory covered the sky over Dodge with racing slate-gray clouds and turned the air glacial, Matt never imagined how true Doc's words would prove to be.


	3. Chapter 3

"You oughtn't do yer rounds tonight, Mr. Dillon," Chester said. " 'Tain't nary a soul outside, an' the shops and saloons is all locked tight. Miss Kitty 'n Sam done closed up the Long Branch a'ready, an' restaurants closed early, too, even Delmonico's."

"If the storm hits while I'm out, I'll cut my rounds short and come back to the office," said Matt, buttoning his coat. "I'm sleeping the night here so I don't have to double back walking to my room."

Chester moved to the window and peered into the darkness. "Storm's fixin' ta hit any minute, way that wind's a howlin'. Some flakes is flyin' out thar." He turned from the window. "You git caught in that blizzard when it comes, Mr. Dillon, yer cold might turn to pneumonia."

"No it won't," said the marshal, putting on his hat. "I'm not coughing; it's just a head cold. Pneumonia starts in the lungs."

"No matter, you'll git sicker iffen the snow falls on you. Yer lookin' a mite fevered as it is."

"Don't worry, Chester."

"Well, if you plumb set your head on walkin' them rounds, I'm goin' with you," said Chester.

"No you're not," said Matt, who liked to take his nightly walk through town alone. "I need you to feed the stove fire and fix some fresh coffee so I can warm up and have a hot drink when I get back here," said Matt.

"_Oh. _Well you're right 'bout that, Mr. Dillon. Won't help yer cold none to come back to tepid coffee an' a freezin' office. Ah'll drag out a bunk from the jail for you to sleep on, too."

The icy wind chilled Matt to his bones, and he strode fast through the deserted streets to warm his blood. His head felt tight and achy, his muscles stiff and sore and his nose was clogged. Cold as he was, a swirling eddied off and on in hot waves through his head, burning his eyes.

Matt reached the back street where there was no boardwalk, just the dirt road between the buildings and the prairie stretching black under the storm clouds. Midway down the street, a roaring crashed against his ears, whiteness filled his vision and the snow-filled gale slammed his sturdy body with such force he almost fell. His hat blew off and frigid wetness pelted his face.

He'd passed Madam Raven's big three-story house at the corner, and knew there was a ramshackle inn at the other end of the street on the edge of the prairie, where he could wait until the blizzard died down. Matt could see nothing but blinding white snow, and heard only the wind, which shrieked now as well as roaring. He knew he must walk a straight line to the inn, or he'd drift onto the open plains and freeze to death.

The blizzard shook the jailhouse when it hit, rattling the windows and roof and floorboards. Sitting on his bed worrying about Matt, Chester startled. "Oh my _goodness_." He jumped up and hurried to the window. Whirling snow battered the panes, and he couldn't see out. "Mr. Dillon." Chester knew the marshal was sicker than he let on; he tried to hide it many a time when he felt poorly. Weak from his head cold, he might take some wrong turns in the blizzard and freeze.

Chester quickly put on his coat, and tied his hat on with a thick woolen scarf knotted under his chin. He calculated how long since Mr. Dillon went out, and figured he must have reached the back street in his rounds when the storm hit.

The fastest way to get there was cutting straight through town from the marshal's office. Chester would go through the passages between buildings, where the flurry was less fierce and the storm couldn't blow him off-track. Crossing the streets would prove harder, but he felt sure he was in little danger of straying onto the prairie from the center of Dodge.

He pulled on a pair of gloves and headed out into the blizzard, throwing himself against the door to close it. He pushed it with all his strength, and the wind slammed it shut.

Chester navigated the passages with little trouble, then fought the wind as he crossed the streets. The wind dragged him to one side and the other and he struggled to stay on course, knowing that if he swerved to the end of the road, he might wander out of town and die in the snow.

The black shapes of shops and saloons, rooming houses and hotels, offices and restaurants guided Chester through town to the back street. He couldn't see the walkways or water troughs, and each time he crossed a street, his boots knocked the boards and he stumbled, or tripped against the troughs and almost fell. Then he'd feel out the passageways with his gloved hands, limp through them and catch his breath as the walls on either side of the narrow space buffered him from the full force of the storm.

Trudging through the blizzard toward the inn at the end of the back street, Matt felt a hot rush of vertigo and swayed in his boots. He stood still in the snow and waited for the dizziness to pass. He felt like his nose was stuffed with wads of cotton, and the wind and snow made it hard to draw breath.

Then he opened his eyes and he was sprawled on the snowy ground, only he had no recollection of falling there. He slowly climbed to his feet and squinted into the blizzard, searching for the buildings and seeing only whiteness.

Matt's head swam like he was in a whirlpool, and he wished he'd let Chester fetch some headache powders from Doc's that morning, which would have masked the dizziness and allowed Matt to think clearly. He took some tentative steps and stopped, realizing he'd lost his bearings. Looking around, he figured the snow was falling more heavily, concealing the buildings completely from sight. He was getting too numb; he had to keep moving. If he walked too far without bumping into a structure, he'd just turn in a different direction until he found one.

Then of a sudden he sensed Chester, nearby and scared, not for himself but for Matt. It had to be the fever, his mind playing tricks on him, as he'd left Chester at the office, afraid for Matt no doubt, but nowhere near him now. Matt trudged on, feeling Chester's sensitive desperate presence, so unshakable that Matt came to a halt in the snow and turned around.

When Chester reached the back street, he ran into a hitching rail and grabbed it, looked up and down the street as the storm raged on, then straight ahead where he knew the open prairie was. He saw the thickly whirling snow against the huge black emptiness of the plains, and the tall, faintly outlined form of a man moving into the emptiness.

Chester sagged against the rail and clung to it, opened his mouth and sucked in a chest full of icy air that stung like a knife. _"Mr. Dillon!" _he shouted. Chester didn't hear his voice; the wind snatched it and swallowed it up.

He wanted to follow Mr. Dillon and turn him back to Dodge and safety, but Chester had no more strength to fight the wind and snow. He gripped the hitching rail and shook as the wind pulled at and pounded him. Then the tall form stopped and turned.

Matt saw Chester's thin frame as a shadow against the shapes of Dodge, and his heart thrilled. Then suddenly, with incredible swiftness, the blizzard blew over Dodge and vanished, leaving deafening silence and a town shrouded in snow. A few scattered flakes drifted through the air and the storm clouds disappeared.

Chester limped through the snow to meet Matt. "Mr. Dillon. You was most lost." Chester's voice quavered and his eyes shimmered.

"Alright, Chester. It's this blasted head cold. I passed out, then I got muddled and went the wrong way."

"You passed out? My gracious. You gotta get out from this freezin' air straightaway. I'll walk you to Doc's."

"No, we'll let Doc sleep," said Matt. "He needs his rest. I'll swig from the whiskey bottle before I go to bed."

Their boots crunched the snow as they walked through the night to the marshal's office. "How'd you find me in that storm," said Matt.

"Dunno. I mean, I jest knowed you was on the back street in trouble, an' I had to git where you was so I done it. I don't recollect how." Chester sniffled and swiped at his eyes.

"Chester." Matt patted his back.

When Doc showed up at the jailhouse the next morning to take a look at Matt, prescribe bedrest and leave him headache powders and a tonic, Doc gave Chester a penetrating look and pronounced him cured of all effects he suffered when he fell on the ice and struck his head.

"I knowed it a'ready. Thet ma head's on straight. I felt somethin' shift in my head when I went after Mr. Dillon in the blizzard, and I knowed straightaway I was healed," said Chester.

"How can you be sure Chester's cured, Doc," said Matt.

"His eyes." Doc pointed at one and then the other of his own astute blue eyes.

"The addled look's gone," said Doc. "Not a trace of it left. Except the natural vagaries peculiar to Chester, and as a close friend of his I know the difference."

Chester was mixing a hot toddy for Matt at the table. Concern for the marshal and vestiges of excitement from the night before prompted Chester to rise from bed earlier than usual. He went first to Doc's, told him what happened to Matt in the blizzard, then went to Jonas's store and related the same account with his usual embellishments. Jonas donated a jar of honey, cinnamon sticks and rye whiskey bottled in 1800.

Though Chester did not understand what Doc said about his eyes, Doc calling him a close friend warmed him through. He paused mixing honey in a cup of steaming whiskey to look at Doc, overcome. Doc gave him a cheerful nod, and Chester went on mixing, humming to himself as the smell of whiskey filled the warm room.

A Miss Ginny who worked at the Long Branch heard Chester tell Jonas how Matt was caught in the storm, and Ginny told Kitty, who went to sit with Matt and see how Chester fared. "Did Chester seem strange at all, Ginny?" Kitty asked as she hastily arranged her red tresses in her room over the saloon.

"Strange?" Ginny helped herself to a cup of Kitty's tea. "Like how, Kitty? Chester's Chester. _You _know."

"I know," said Kitty. "But did he look confused, or distressed?"

"No, not at all. He was just himself, earnest and kinda sweet. Like he always is," said Ginny.

Kitty put down her comb and reached for her cosmetics, and Ginny's small, piercing dark eyes met Kitty's exquisite blue ones in the mirror. "I'd think you'd be more concerned about Marshal Dillon than Chester, Kitty," Ginny scolded. "The marshal's the one who's sick. He fainted out there in that blizzard last night. You being his girl and all. Were he my man, I'd be awful worried."

Kitty neither took offense or felt guilt at the criticism, and calmly applied her powder and rouge with a swift expert hand. Ginny did not of course know the marshal like Kitty did. A faint from a head cold in a snowstorm would not give him pneumonia. Matt was too hardy for that, and he disliked anyone fussing over him. She knew he wouldn't listen to Doc's advice to spend even a day in bed.

Kitty smiled brightly as she entered the marshal's office, then breathed in the honey-laced, whiskey-scented air in the room. "Smells good in here," she said.

"I made Mr. Dillon a toddy, Miss Kitty." Chester grinned at her and held up a cup of steaming spirits. "Thar's plenty iffen ya want some." His face was flushed, and Kitty guessed he'd drunk a full cup at least.

"I'd love some, Chester," said Kitty.

"Hello, Matt. How is he, Doc?" she said, moving to the bed where Matt sat sipping the toddy. As she'd expected, he was shaved and fully dressed to his boots, his curly waves combed neatly in place.

"Hello, Kitty," said Matt.

"Don't stand up," she said as he started to rise. "Sit there and rest."

"I'm fine," said Matt.

"He has a cold and a bit of fever, like he did before he was caught in that blizzard," said Doc. "He's no worse."

"Well, that's good to hear," said Kitty. She and Matt smiled at each other, then Chester limped to Kitty and pushed a hot cup into her hands.

She sipped the heated whiskey. "You like it?" said Chester, hovering over her.

"Mmm. It's delicious." Kitty gazed up at him, her eyes searching his.

The pretty face Chester took such pleasure in looking at was asking him a question, and Miss Kitty looked worried, much as she had looking at Mr. Dillon. "I'm fine too, Miss Kitty," Chester said soberly. "Doc said so jest a l'il while ago."

Kitty turned her questioning gaze to Doc. "Chester is sound as a new dollar, head to toe," said Doc. He tapped his forehead and winked. "I think seeing Matt in danger for his life, fighting body and soul to save him, had somewhat to do with it."

"I only done what Mr. Dillon would do for me in a heartbeat," said Chester. "An' I dint do nothin', really. The storm blew over so's he warn't in danger no more. 'Twarn't me."

"Well I'm happy you're both safe," said Kitty, "and Matt's recovering, and you're all better, Chester."

"I'll drink to that," said Matt. Steam drifted round his face as he took a long drink of the toddy.

"Strong stuff, this rye." Doc filled his mouth, swallowed and smiled wide, which he rarely did. "This medicine'll set you straight in no time, Matt. You mix a good drink, Chester."

"Thank you, Doc." Chester drank from his cup and tittered.

"Chester takes good care of Matt, too," said Kitty.

"Aw now, Miss Kitty," said Chester. "For heaven sakes."

"You do, Chester," said Matt. "I'll try and keep that to mind."

END


End file.
